Turn the Tide Katie Ruggle & Adriana

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Books. Change. Lives.

Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover images © Peepo/Getty Images, © Frank Simon/EyeEm

The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as follows:
“Any Means Necessary” © 2019 by Katie Ruggle
“Deep Blue” © 2019 by Adriana Anders
“No Way Out” © 2019 by Juno Rushdan
“Beyond Home” © 2019 by Connie Mann

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical
means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied
in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to
real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60563–4410
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 Contents

Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Any Means Necessary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
About the Author
Deep Blue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
Chapter 8
About the Author
No Way Out
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
About the Author
Beyond Home
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author
Back Cover
 Any Means Necessary
A Rocky Mountain Bounty Hunters Novella

Katie Ruggle
 Chapter 1

“I hate the mall,” Molly said.

“I know.” Cara’s voice was endlessly patient, as if she hadn’t heard this same
complaint a dozen times in the past twenty minutes.
“What are all these people doing here?” Molly was honestly baffled as she
looked around at the late-summer Saturday crowd. “Don’t they know about the
internet?”
When her sister didn’t respond, Molly glanced over to see Cara’s wistful gaze
fixed on a bookstore’s back-to-school textbooks display.
A nerve twitched under Molly’s eye. “Cara.”
Cara’s head whipped around to face front, her expression filled with sheepish
guilt. She had always been hopeless at poker. “What?”
“You didn’t.”
Shooting Molly a sideways glance, Cara held out for a full two-and-a-half
seconds before her shoulders sagged. “I didn’t know what else to do. She needed
money and would’ve hit you up next. You need everything you have for the
business.”
Molly clicked her molars shut before she could blurt out the first angry words
that wanted to escape. Taking a few breaths, she tried to keep her voice calm—
and was almost successful. “Jane is an adult. She needs to earn her own money,
not scam her daughter into giving up her tuition.”
Cara flushed, and Molly felt a pang of regret for shaming her sister. Molly had
been just as guilty of giving in to their mother’s machinations in the past, but this
was Cara , who’d dreamed for years of becoming a teacher. If Jane kept taking
the money she needed for college, Cara would eventually end up a sixty-year-old
who’d spent her life working as a bounty hunter instead of doing what she loved.
“You know she would’ve just stolen it if I hadn’t given it to her.”
A rush of anger made Molly’s cheeks burn. “That’s her decision. You’re not
responsible for the bad things she does.”
“It’s fine,” Cara said, setting her chin stubbornly. “I’ll just take next semester
off. You need all the help you can find to get the business off the ground
anyway.” She made a valiant attempt at a lighthearted smile. “I do your books,
so don’t even try to tell me you’re not grabbing every job you can get. More
available hands in the field will only help.”
Pushing back her rage at their mom’s selfishness, Molly tried to think of a
tactful way to tell her sister that, as much as she loved her, Cara’s talents were
much better used behind a desk. As far as paperwork and record keeping went,
Cara was ruthlessly competent and organized. In the field, however, she was
inept to a terrifying degree.
Before she could come up with a gentle way to turn down Cara’s offer of more
hands-on help, a familiar figure caught Molly’s eye. “There’s Doreen.”
Cara snapped to attention, her gaze following Molly’s to the woman making
her way to the toy store. “You sure? She looks completely different from the
person in the surveillance videos.”
“I’m sure.” Doreen might be wearing thrift-store castoffs rather than her
preferred couture suit and a brown wig over her blond hair, but the woman
couldn’t hide the slightly stiff hitch in her right hip or her tendency to tip her
head to the side when sizing up a mark. Pulling out her phone, Molly sent a
group text. Spotted at toy store. Plan A is a go.
Cara must have finally noticed the same tells, because her breath caught as she
watched Doreen enter the store. “Whoa. That is her. Good eye, Molly.”
As adrenaline fizzed through her, Molly gave her sister a fierce grin. She’d
deal with their mess of a mother later. Right now, she had a skip to catch.
“Yell if you need backup,” Cara said, heading toward the escalator. The view
from the second-level railing would let her keep eyes on the toy store.
With a wave to show she’d heard, Molly weaved between shoppers, trying to
keep her expression more casual than predatory. It was difficult, though. They’d
been chasing Doreen around Langston and Denver for weeks. Now that she was
so close, Molly was determined to take the skip in. Doreen’s bail bond had been
decent, which meant Molly could finally pay some bills with the bounty
money…and start scraping together Cara’s replacement tuition.
Shoving those thoughts aside, she concentrated on finding Doreen. The toy
store aisles were packed close together, and brightly colored displays blocked
Molly’s view, forcing her to search down each aisle. The store was busy enough
to make moving quickly impossible, so Molly wound around the kids and their
parents, keeping her pace slow and pretending she was there to shop.
Her impatience pricked at her, though, reminding her of all the times she’d
thought she’d had Doreen cornered, only to have the other woman slip the leash
and disappear. This skip was slippery, and Molly didn’t want her torturous trip
to the mall to be for nothing. As she rounded the aisle endcap, barely looking at
the huge toy-car racetrack proudly displayed there, she slammed to an abrupt
halt.
Doreen stood in front of the wall of LEGOs, her usually straight shoulders
drooping and her chin dipped toward her chest. Every so often, Doreen would
touch one of the castle sets before dropping her hand and heaving an audible,
mournful sigh. An older woman, who was picking out a simple puzzle on the
other side of the aisle, kept throwing curious glances in Doreen’s direction.
Pretending to examine the toys at the far end of the aisle, Molly stayed alert,
waiting for the right moment to grab Doreen. She didn’t want the white-haired
grandma type to be injured if there was a scuffle—or a full-on wrestling match.
Unfortunately, it appeared that the older woman was about to step into Doreen’s
trap.
Don’t fall for it, Granny , Molly warned silently, but the woman was
obviously not a mind reader. Molly mentally rolled her eyes as Doreen, like the
scam artist she was, blew out the deepest, most heartrending sigh yet before
wiping away a tear.
“Are you okay?” the white-haired woman asked, and it was Molly’s turn to
sigh. Grandma had taken the bait.
 “Oh!” Pretending to jump with surprise, Doreen hastily wiped under her eyes.
“Sorry. I’m fine. It’s just…” She brushed the LEGO kit with her fingertips
again.
“What is it?” Fully lured in, the older woman took the final step to stand next
to Doreen.
“My daughter, Bailey, is turning six tomorrow, and she desperately wants
this.” Doreen nodded toward the LEGO castle as she gave a slightly choked
laugh. “She’s been pleading for months.”
The grandma smiled. “My eight-year-old granddaughter has that set, and she
loves it.”
Molly resisted the urge to shake her head. There was a reason Doreen was a
scam artist; she was really good at it.
“She’s been really into fairy tales, especially since her dad died—” Doreen’s
voice broke, and the older woman sucked in a sympathetic breath before patting
Doreen’s arm. Doreen blinked rapidly, and another tear tracked down her cheek.
“He used to read her bedtime stories, so I think it’s her way of staying close to
him, now that he’s…gone.”
“She’ll love her birthday present, then,” the grandma assured Doreen, still
patting her arm comfortingly.
“It’s just that I can’t…” She broke off on a sob before visibly stiffening her
shoulders. “I’m sorry. This isn’t your problem. I’m so sorry I bothered you.”
Molly could tell that Grandma was fully caught in Doreen’s net of lies. “No,
no, dear. You didn’t bother me. I’m sorry you’re having such a hard time with
your husband’s death. When I lost my Frank, I wandered around in a daze for a
year. It will get better, but being alone is hard, especially when you’re trying to
raise a little one.”
It was all Molly could do to hold back a scoff. The only thing Doreen was
grieving was getting arrested for her last scam. She had never been married, and
she didn’t have any kids.
Molly shuffled a little closer to the two women.
“Thank you.” Reaching out, Doreen clasped the other woman’s hand. “That
means so much from another widow.” Offering a brave, trembling smile, Doreen
started turning away.
“Wait,” Grandma called after her. “You forgot your daughter’s present.”
Pulling one of the kits off the shelf, she held it out to Doreen, who regarded it
with heartbreaking sadness.
“I can’t afford it.” Doreen pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes as she
pulled in a short, shaky breath. “The factory laid me off last week, and we were
already behind on bills, thanks to the…funeral costs. I can’t even afford to buy
her a birthday cake.” Her shoulders drooping even more dramatically, she slowly
started to turn away again.
“Wait,” the grandma said before Doreen could get far. “Let me help.” She
reached into her oversize handbag, and Molly knew she needed to take the scam
artist down immediately. She hurried down the aisle as the older woman pulled
out a handful of cash.
Doreen caught sight of Molly, and her expression went from dawning hope to
narrow-eyed comprehension in a fraction of a second. Molly sped up to a sprint,
knowing the woman was going to run. Sure enough, Doreen spun and bolted.
Grandma gave a surprised cry as Molly lunged toward Doreen, intending to
catch her legs and bring her down. Something hard hit the back of Molly’s head,
sending her sprawling. Shaking off the shock of the blow, she grabbed for
Doreen. Her fingers brushed the back of one of the fleeing woman’s tennis
shoes, but she couldn’t get a solid grip.
As Molly launched to her feet, she saw the LEGO box swing toward her head
again, this time hurtling toward her face. She barely managed to get her hands up
in time.
“Stop it, ma’am!” she ordered, ducking to avoid another swing as she
marveled at how much a hit from the plastic box stung. “I’m a bounty hunter.
Doreen Douglas—Ow! Stop! —Doreen skipped bail after—Ow! —being
arrested for fraud and—Would you stop? Ouch! —fraud and theft. She’s a scam
artist!”
The older woman finally stopped swinging and stared at Molly. “Oh! She was
lying about her daughter? What a terrible person. Why are you standing here,
then? Go get her!”
 Holding back a frustrated sigh, Molly took off down the aisle after Doreen.
She fought her way through the line in front of the register and rushed to the
front of the store. By the time she made it out, Doreen had disappeared into the
crowds. “Why don’t these things ever go smoothly?” Molly muttered, yanking
her phone out of her pocket.
Left , Cara had texted. Giving her sister a thank-you wave, Molly took off in
that direction, scanning for Doreen as she threaded her way through the
shoppers. The brown wig was nowhere to be seen, but Molly caught a flash of
blond hair and made her way toward it. Sure enough, the blond speed-walking
toward the exit had Doreen’s distinctive gait.
Molly broke into a run, knowing she had to catch the woman before she made
it through the doors and into the attached parking garage. The distance between
them narrowed, and Molly was just starting to hope that maybe the day wouldn’t
be a complete disaster when Doreen glanced over her shoulder.
Her eyes went wide as she spotted Molly bearing down on her, and she turned
sharply, cutting through a kids’ play area. With a huff of impatience, Molly
skirted around the playground, knowing she couldn’t tackle Doreen surrounded
by toddlers. Reaching the edge of the kids’ area, Doreen bolted, and Molly
sprinted after her.
The woman is fast , Molly thought with reluctant admiration, fighting to make
it through the crowd without throwing too many elbows. They’re innocent
bystanders , she reminded herself grimly, even if they did make her job a
hundred times harder. It looked so easy in the movies, where everyone moved
out of the way, but in real life, people tended to plant themselves and gawk,
forcing her to skirt around them instead.
When Molly saw where Doreen was headed, she groaned. Not the food court!
Putting on another burst of speed, she made a valiant effort to catch up. The
crowded, messy food court was the last place she wanted to be chasing a skip.
The space between them narrowed, and Molly reached out, her fingertips just
inches from the back of Doreen’s hoodie. Hope rose again, only to be
extinguished when the woman pivoted suddenly, taking a sharp right and darting
between the backs of two seated customers. One pushed his chair back and
stood, blocking the path, and Molly was forced to quickly turn and round the
table in the other direction.
If she had any oxygen to spare, she would’ve been swearing under her breath
as the space between her and her quarry lengthened. Setting her jaw stubbornly,
she weaved between tables, digging in and speeding up, not allowing her tiring
body to flag.
“Hey!” a bass voice called, and her head whipped in that direction. A huge guy
stood to the side, his air of authority making her immediately assume he was
mall security. She’d expected the mall cops to intervene at some point, but that
was another annoying obstacle she would have to deal with, and she kind of had
her hands full at the moment.
It took her a second to realize that her theory was off base. First, he wasn’t in
uniform. Second, he was grinning a huge, dimpled smile. Third, and most
importantly, he’d unhooked a rope that had been partitioning the food court,
opening up a beautiful shortcut for her.
Molly grinned back at him as she darted through, wishing she had enough
breath to thank him, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Go get her,” he said in that rumbling voice, and her smile widened as she
realized just how gorgeous this random Good Samaritan was. Then her brain
kicked back into work mode, and the stranger was forgotten as she sprinted
toward Doreen’s retreating figure, not wanting to waste the advantage she’d
gained.
Doreen took another sharp turn, but this time, Molly was ready for it and stuck
right behind her. They were reaching the edge of the food court, and the south
exit doors were twenty feet away. As Doreen ran around the last table, Molly
charged after her, so close she could taste victory and that lovely bill-and-
tuition-paying bounty money.
Even as she bared her teeth in triumph, Molly saw Doreen grab a little boy’s
arm, yanking him into the path behind her—and right in front of Molly. She saw
his huge eyes widen as Molly scrambled to throw on the brakes, knowing the
boy was too tall to hurdle and she was too close to stop completely before
bashing into him.
 Desperately, she hurled herself to the side, the edge of the table knocking
painfully against her hip before she skidded over the top and landed hard. She
was on her feet immediately, ignoring new aches that were sure to develop into
colorful bruises.
“You okay?” she asked the kid as his mom snatched him against her. As soon
as the boy nodded, she was running toward Doreen again, but she already knew
those few seconds of delay had been too long. Sure enough, Doreen was almost
to the doors. The mall was crowded, but the street outside was even busier, and
Doreen was much too talented at disappearing—as Molly knew from painful
experience.
Still, she gave everything in that final sprint as Doreen reached for the door
handle, shooting a triumphant smirk over her shoulder at Molly…just before
someone shot from the side to tackle Doreen to the floor.
Doreen gave a surprised shriek as she was taken down, and Molly slowed to a
jog, her smile returning even as she sucked in air.
“Nice…job…Charlie,” she told her sister, who grinned back at her fiercely.
There was nothing Charlie loved as much as tackling a skip. Even though
Charlie and Cara were twins, their personalities couldn’t be more different.
Right now, Molly was grateful she had both of them on her side.
“Didn’t I tell you she’d head for the food court?” Charlie asked triumphantly,
turning her attention back to Doreen, who was squirming in her hold. Charlie
latched on to Doreen’s right thumb and pulled her arm behind her back, and the
woman in her grip went still.
“You did, but I was still hoping I wouldn’t have to be covered in ketchup
today.” Glancing down at her side, where some mysterious brown substance
stained her shirt from the slide across the table, Molly sighed and then refocused
on her sister. “Need any help?”
“Nah, I’m good. Are the deputies on their way?”
Cara jogged up, and Doreen immediately started pleading, an artful tear
streaking down her cheek. “Please help me! These crazy women chased me
down. They want to rob me!”
Cara, being Cara, gave Doreen a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, but that’s not
going to work on me. I was the one who did all the research.”
With an annoyed-sounding grunt, Doreen dropped the act and went back to
muttering invectives under her breath.
Turning to her twin, Cara continued, “I let the deputies know. They said
they’re three minutes out.”
“Thanks.” Molly was about to ask if she’d also told Felicity when she spotted
her youngest sister heading toward them.
“How do you always know which way the skips are going to run?” Felicity
asked Charlie as soon as she was within earshot. “I ended up with the boring,
unused exit again and missed out on all the excitement. It’s like you’re psychic. I
never get to tackle anyone.”
Charlie just gave her a Cheshire-cat grin. “It’s a gift.”
“If you want excitement,” Molly said, still catching her breath, “you’re
welcome to be the one who does the chasing next time, Fifi. I’ll watch an exit
instead. That seems like it’d be nice and peaceful.”
Felicity shot her a glare at the hated nickname. “Seems like we need to up our
morning workouts if a little jog through the mall leaves you so out of breath.”
The rest of them groaned, especially Molly. At this point, with fatigue making
her legs shake as adrenaline drained out of her, she couldn’t imagine even
walking to the parking garage, much less enduring one of Felicity’s grueling
training sessions. She sent a text to their other sister, Norah, asking her to pick
them up at the south entrance. Norah was a genius with tech, but she was even
more hopeless in the field than Cara was.
“I almost had her,” Molly said as she returned her phone to her pocket. “If she
hadn’t started throwing children in front of me…” She gave Doreen a chastising
look, but the pinned woman just turned her head to the other side to avoid
Molly’s gaze.
“Yeah, I saw,” Felicity said. “Who was that guy who helped you?”
Molly shrugged, glancing back toward the food court, but the giant, smiling
stranger wasn’t anywhere to be seen. “Some random helpful dude, I guess. I
thought he was a security guard, but he wasn’t wearing a uniform.”
“Speaking of security,” Cara said in a low voice, tipping her head toward a
wide-eyed man and woman in bright-yellow shirts hurrying toward them.
“He definitely wasn’t security, then.” Molly straightened, pushing back all
thoughts of the gorgeous stranger, and went to deal with the guards. Doreen
might be in their custody, but the job wasn’t done yet. Still, Molly allowed
herself a small grin.
They’d done it. As slippery a skip as Doreen was, Molly and her sisters had
tracked her down and captured her. They weren’t half-bad at this bounty-hunting
gig.
 Chapter 2

“Uh…Molly?” Norah’s eyes were wide as she stared at her laptop screen, and
her voice was apprehensive enough that Warrant, their giant shaggy dog, lifted
his head from where it had been resting on Molly’s foot.
“Yes?” Molly prompted when Norah didn’t say anything but just continued to
stare at whatever was on her screen in horror.
“Are you absolutely sure this is a skip you want to chase?” Norah asked as she
finally dragged her gaze from the computer and looked at Molly over the kitchen
table.
“Of course I don’t want to chase him. Just looking at his mug shot scares the
snot out of me.” Leaning back in her chair, Molly tugged out the hair band
holding her ponytail, releasing the heavy fall of dark hair to tumble down her
back. She started twisting the straight, silky strands into a thick braid just to give
her fingers something to do. “I don’t have much of a choice, though.”
Norah just blinked at her, waiting for her to continue.
“Cara gave her tuition money to Mom again.”
Comprehension lit Norah’s eyes even as she winced. “Isn’t there any other
option? What if we bring in more skips that aren’t quite so”—her gaze flickered
to her laptop again, and she made a face—“bloodthirsty?”
“Bloodthirsty?” Molly repeated, trying to sound amused even though she
wanted to run to her bedroom and hide under the covers for the rest of the day.
“Cameron Hall is not a pirate. He’s just a…”
“Armed robber?” Norah filled in the blank with more snap than she usually
had.
 “Yeah.” Giving up the attempt to lighten the mood, Molly slumped and played
with the end of her braid. After a few seconds of mournful self-pity, she
straightened. “There’s no other option. We’re still struggling to get enough jobs
to pay the bills, and Cara needs that money soon, or she’ll have to skip a
semester.” Molly worried that once Cara left school, even if it was only
supposed to be temporary, she would never be able to go back. There’d always
be another use for that tuition money, and Cara was too self-sacrificing to fight
for her dream. It was up to Molly and her other sisters to make sure Cara’s future
didn’t get trampled by everyone else—especially their mother.
“It’ll be fine. This guy isn’t the brightest.”
Norah clucked, and the sound made Molly grin, despite everything. Her little
sister sounded so motherly sometimes. “Those are the most dangerous because
they rely on brute force to get themselves out of situations.”
Her smile fading, Molly firmed her resolve. It would be too easy to let Norah
talk her out of going after Hall. After all, Norah was just echoing what Molly’s
common sense had been warning her repeatedly for the past few weeks. This guy
wasn’t one of her usual low-level, nonviolent skips. He’d been willing to point a
loaded gun at someone in order to get what he wanted. It was reckless and
probably stupid for her to go after such a dangerous skip, but she’d considered
all the possible solutions, and this was the best one. The only problem was that it
was also the most potentially deadly.
Shaking off her own doubts that she was ready to take this step, Molly
flattened her hands on the table and pushed to her feet, giving Norah a level
look. “I’m doing this. Will you help me minimize the chance of my death and/or
major injury?”
As Molly knew she would, Norah didn’t even pause before nodding. “Of
course I’ll help. I just want to go on the record and say this is a really bad idea,
and I wish you weren’t doing it.”
“Me too.” Molly sighed before moving to stand behind Norah. “Okay, what do
I need to know about this guy?”
“He has an ex-wife in Denver, an on-again, off-again girlfriend here in
Langston, and a couple of friends—one in Thornton and one in Aurora. I just
sent the addresses to your phone.”
“At least he’s staying in the Denver area.” Molly didn’t want to involve any of
her sisters, but she needed more eyes or she’d be doing surveillance for months.
“See if Charlie or Felicity can take a couple of those. Tell them they’re just
gathering information, though. If I hear about either of them trying to take this
guy in by themselves, there’s going to be trouble.”
Norah raised her eyebrows. “But we’re supposed to just sit back while you
take this guy in instead?”
“Yes. I’m the oldest, so I get to be hypocritical like that.” She patted her sister
on the head when Norah frowned at her. “Which place looks the most likely?”
Although Norah grumbled under her breath, she tapped the girlfriend’s
address.
“Perfect. That’s the closest.” Giving Norah a quick side hug, she said, “Thank
you for researching.”
As Molly crouched to give Warrant a belly rub, Norah crossed her arms. “I
really don’t think you should go after this guy.”
“Yeah, me neither, but sometimes life sucks that way.” Giving the dog a final
pat, she straightened and headed for the door to the garage. “I promise I’ll keep
you updated if anything exciting happens, but I’m sure I’m going to spend the
day staring at an empty house.”
Ignoring more unhappy rumblings from Norah, Molly grabbed her bag and
slipped into the garage. As much as she loved her sister, it was a relief to be
alone. It was much easier to ignore her brain’s warnings when Norah wasn’t
adding to the chorus.
The drive to Hall’s girlfriend’s place only took about ten minutes. The
neighborhood was an older one, and the house was only slightly more run-down
than its neighbors. The porch of the boxy two-story was leaning to one side,
giving the whole place a lopsided feel. The tan paint had faded to a dirty beige,
and the lawn was weedy and sunbaked.
Molly passed the house and kept driving, making an effort not to slow down in
front of it and alert anyone of her interest. There wasn’t a park or a playground
nearby, somewhere she could linger without arousing suspicion, but there were a
number of older cars parked along the side of the road. She circled the block and
then parked a few houses down in a spot that gave her a good view of the front
of the house. After taking down all the license plates of the vehicles parked
around her, as well as the SUV sitting in the driveway, she settled in for a long,
boring wait.
Barely a minute passed before the front door swung open, and Molly snapped
to attention. She was impressed by her timing. Usually, surveillance involved a
whole lot of nothing, but she wasn’t going to complain about the excitement.
Still, she blinked with amazement as Hall stomped out. “It’s the middle of the
afternoon, my dude,” she muttered, her eyes fixed on her target. “You skipped
out on a huge bail. You should be holed up somewhere, hiding out. What the
heck are you doing?”
A woman’s yelling voice followed him out of the house. He turned and
shouted something rude and then ducked as what appeared to be a wine bottle
flew over his head and bounced a few times on the weedy lawn. Hall swore and
stomped toward the SUV in the driveway. He backed quickly into the street,
jerking the vehicle to a halt just inches from the side of a parked car, and then
blasted forward, shooting off in the opposite direction.
Unable to believe her luck, Molly waited until he turned right at the end of the
block before pulling her car away from the curb. She stayed as far back as
possible without losing him as they made their way through the mostly empty
residential streets, and she breathed a relieved sigh when he turned onto busy
Baker Street. She merged into traffic behind him, grateful that his SUV was an
easy-to-spot bright red.
When he turned into the parking lot of a liquor store, she made a humming
sound. “Not sure more alcohol will help the home situation, buddy,” she
muttered as she drove into the lot of the grocery store a few buildings down.
Parking toward the back, she waited until Hall entered the liquor store before
getting out of her car and hurrying across the lots. The sun beat down on her
exposed head, and she twisted her braid into a low bun as she walked quickly
toward the store. If she’d known she’d be making contact with a skip today, she
would’ve secured her hair before she left the house. There was no sense giving
Hall something to grab if it came down to a fight.
The buzz of adrenaline coursed through her, making her walk bouncier than
usual as she reached the front of the liquor store. Her nerves were strung tighter
than usual, but that made sense. Hall was far more dangerous than her usual
skip. Despite that, there was no tremor in her hand as she reached for the door
handle and pulled it open.
The rush of air-conditioned coolness brushed her overheated skin as she
stepped inside. After the brightness of the summer sun, it took her eyes a few
seconds to adjust to the dimmer interior lights, and she stood just inside the door
until her vision brightened.
The store was mostly empty and almost eerily quiet. Her boots didn’t make
any noise as she walked across the worn industrial carpet, which ramped up her
nerves even more. The man behind the counter didn’t look at her as she
approached, keeping his gaze fixed on the worn paperback in his hands. He
flipped the page, the sound loud in the hush.
As Molly glanced down each aisle, she remembered her toy-store search a few
weeks back. Although the mall crowds had made it harder to chase Doreen,
they’d also provided a sort of safety in numbers. If Doreen had gotten the upper
hand, there was a much greater possibility of someone stepping in to help Molly
out.
The light clank of glass bottles knocking against each other made her jump,
and she immediately scolded herself. This was not the time to lose her nerve.
She resumed her search, continuing to check aisles as she moved toward the
back of the store.
No one else was there. She reached the last aisle, straightening her shoulders
and spine in preparation. This was it. She hadn’t expected to be taking down
Cameron Hall today, but this was a perfect setup. She took a moment and texted
Norah, as well as two of the sheriff’s deputies she often dealt with. As she
waited for responses, she lightly patted her pants pocket, feeling the weight of a
pair of handcuffs. In a pinch, she could immobilize a skip while she waited for
law enforcement to arrive, but Hall was a big, mean guy. She didn’t want to take
any chances on him. If she was going to take this step and start bringing in the
high-dollar—and more dangerous—skips, she knew she had to be smart about it.
Otherwise, she could easily get hurt…or killed.
Blowing out a hard, silent breath, she started to step forward when the bells
hanging on the front door jangled, the unexpected sound freezing her into place.
Now , right before the takedown, someone was going to wander in? Clicking her
teeth together, she glanced over her shoulder to see who’d just entered.
When she spotted the vaguely familiar face, she went still again. The guy was
tall, and broad, and just generally enormous, with dark hair and eyes. The
amused way he was looking at her, as if they shared an inside joke, made her
cock her head and try to figure out where she’d seen him before. She pushed
away the distraction and focused as she turned into the final aisle. Now wasn’t
the time to try to puzzle out why the stranger looked familiar.
As soon as she moved around the endcap, Hall was right there, striding toward
her, looking like a mountain of a man. Between Hall and the new guy, this liquor
store seemed to attract only the most enormous men in Langston. She put on an
innocent expression as he approached, and his gaze flicked over her appraisingly
from her feet to the top of her head and back down again. There was a slight
gleam of appreciation in his eyes, but his pace didn’t slow. Stepping to the side,
Molly allowed him to pass, knowing she couldn’t give him any warning before
pouncing, or he’d flick her off like an annoying flea.
As soon as he passed, she pivoted toward him, reaching for his arm with both
hands and preparing to lift her knee to slam it into the side of his thigh, right in
the spot where the peroneal nerve sat.
“Molly Pax!” a deep bass voice called, and she immediately dropped her arms
and her knee.
Whoever that was, he was going to die.
Hall automatically glanced back at her, and she forced a smile and a slight
shrug. His hard expression didn’t change, and she held back a shiver.
“Molly!” The guy who’d just walked into the store was hurrying toward her,
his face alight, looking as if they were best friends.
“Wha—?” She didn’t even get the whole word out, much less the question,
before he enveloped her in the biggest, tightest bear hug in the universe.
 “Molly Pax, my favorite bounty hunter! What are you doing on this side of
town? I thought you went to Booze World for your hard lemonades.” His arms
tightened until she squeaked. She wasn’t just going to kill him; she was going to
dismember him and then kill him. Not only had he distracted her just as she was
starting her takedown, but he’d completely outed her to the skip.
Prying her face away from the broad and admittedly nicely muscled chest, she
glared up at him. “Let go of me, you oversize doofus! You have the wrong
person. I don’t know you!”
Turning her head, she saw her denial hadn’t had any apparent effect on
Cameron Hall. His whole body radiated fury as he stalked toward the checkout.
“Seriously, what are you doing?” she hissed, breaking out of his bear hug and
charging after Hall. Now that he knew her name and what she looked like, this
was her only chance to bring him in. Hall would never let her get close enough
again. As apprehensive as she’d been about going after him, she wasn’t about to
fail.
“How can you say that, Molly?” The handsome stranger obviously wasn’t
about to quit. She briefly considered grabbing one of the bottles of Jim Beam
from the display next to them and cracking him over the head. Maybe then he’d
be quiet…at least until he regained consciousness.
“Stop it,” she hissed over her shoulder before running to catch up to Hall, who
was just a couple steps away from the register. The clerk was ignoring all the
commotion, still caught up in his book.
Glancing over his shoulder, Hall grimaced as he dropped the six-pack of beer
and two bottles of wine he’d been holding. The bottles crashed to the floor as
Hall spun around, reaching toward the back waistband of his jeans. Molly knew
exactly what he was doing. He was going for his gun.
“Hey! You’re going to have to pay for those!” the cashier demanded, jerking
up straight.
Molly leapt toward Hall in a last-ditch effort to save the situation, hoping to
take him down before he started shooting, but she was plucked out of the air
mid-tackle and hauled behind a display of vodka before she could reach him.
“I’m not paying for those,” Hall snarled. Although Molly couldn’t see what
was happening, she heard the clerk whimper. “You’re paying me . Empty the till.
Now! Move!”
Molly tried to move, to go help the cashier, but there were still two boa-
constrictor-size arms wrapped around her middle.
“What in the freaking world are you doing, weirdo?” she whisper-yelled,
elbowing the stranger in the midsection and taking grim pleasure in his grunt as
she connected. “Let go!” His hold loosened, allowing her to wiggle free.
“He has a gun!” the man hissed. “Stay here and stay down .” Not waiting to
see if she followed his commands, he moved quickly but quietly to the end of the
aisle and slipped out of sight.
“I know he has a gun,” Molly grumbled, even though he couldn’t hear. “He
was arrested for armed robbery. Of course he’s carrying a gun.”
Even as she muttered under her breath, trying to pretend her heart wasn’t
trying to beat out of her chest, she crouched low and peered around the endcap.
All she could see was Hall’s back, and she grimaced. She could only assume he
had the gun trained on the clerk, and trying to take him down now could get the
poor guy shot.
As she watched, Hall’s gaze jumped around—looking for her and the grabby
stranger, Molly assumed. She shifted out of his line of sight and tapped out a text
to the deputies as quietly as possible, updating them on the situation and asking
if they could speed up their arrival. Tucking her phone back in her pocket, she
returned to the end of the aisle. Staying as low as possible, she shifted until she
could barely see Hall through the bottles of vodka, waiting until he turned to
look behind him. As he turned, the gun shifted as well, rotating with his body
until it was pointing away from the clerk.
Even as her brain screamed What are you doing? Molly launched herself out
of her concealed spot, driving herself forward as she aimed for the weapon. Her
hands latched around Hall’s wrist, dragging down his arm as the gun went off,
the expected roar sounding like a mere pop to her ears.
Grabbing the barrel with one hand, she jerked it upward, and Hall gave a sharp
scream as his fingers snapped. His grip loosened, and she yanked the gun free,
tossing it away from them. A fist glanced off her temple, knocking her head to
the side. Hall had punched her with his other, unbroken hand, but the angle was
awkward, not giving him the force he needed to really hurt her. Before he could
give it another try, she gave him a palm strike to the chin, knocking his teeth
together with an audible clack .
He yelled, shaking off the hit and bunching his fist, shoving her against the
wall. Her back hit painfully against the edge of a shelf, and she swallowed a
yelp. Before she could recover, his forearm pressed across her throat, pinning
her. She forced herself to hold still, to not fight the thick arm currently blocking
her airflow. As fast as her heart was beating, it didn’t take long for bright sparks
to dot her vision, but she still struggled to wait for her chance to knee him in a
sensitive spot.
There was a roar behind them, and then the arm across her throat was gone.
Sucking in painful, rough breaths, she blinked the sparkles out of her eyes,
staring as the stranger threw—literally threw —Hall into a display of chip bags.
“Whoa,” she said, blinking, and then snapped out of her fog as the wail of
approaching sirens grew steadily louder. She wasn’t about to have gone through
all of this and not get Hall’s bounty. Shaking her head to get rid of the odd
floating feeling, she pounced, rolling a groaning Hall from his side to his
stomach and cranking his left hand behind his back as she settled a knee against
his spine.
The stranger watched her, his furiously protective expression slowly returning
to a more neutral one.
“You okay?” he asked.
She gave him her best you’ve got to be kidding look. “No thanks to you. What
was all that?” Since her hands were occupied with keeping a still-dazed Hall in
place, she jerked her head toward the far aisle where the doofus had blown her
entire plan out of the water.
Now the guy was looking irritated at her—at her! “I was saving you from
getting shot. Don’t you know who he is?”
“Of course I do.” She frowned back at him, ignoring the noises coming from
the traumatized clerk. From the sound of it, the poor guy was throwing up his
lunch behind the counter. “Do you think I just drag random people back to jail?”
 His frown deepened as he propped his fists on his hips. “If you knew that was
Hall, why’d you go after him? You only pick up the nonviolent skips.”
“Who are you, and how do you know that?”
Before he could answer, two deputies—Molly recognized them as Darren and
Maria—burst into the store with guns drawn. After they took in the situation,
Darren holstered his weapon.
“Is that Cameron Hall?” he asked the stranger. “Nice catch.”
“Hey!” There was no way Molly was about to let him get credit for bringing in
her skip. “He’s my nice catch, Darren. Me. The one sitting on him.”
To her annoyance, the deputy gave the stranger a questioning look. If she’d
had a free hand and a convenient projectile, she would’ve thrown something.
“Yeah, he’s hers,” the stranger agreed, surprising her. So far in their short
acquaintance, he hadn’t gone out of his way to make her life easier. “It was
impressive.”
“His gun’s over there.” Molly dipped her head toward the weapon. “I tossed it
after I disarmed him.” She gave Darren a glare.
“Sorry.” He gave her an apologetic shrug as he moved to cuff Hall, who’d
been oddly quiet. As Molly moved off of him, she saw that he’d passed out.
“Uh-huh.” She wasn’t feeling too forgiving at the moment. Her neck hurt.
“Careful with his right hand. I broke his fingers disarming him—Cameron Hall,
the skip that I just took down all by myself, with no help from any random
weirdos.”
“Hey, I helped.” The stranger sounded more amused than put out, though.
Fine. She had to give him that much. “After you mucked everything up.” She
tried to hold on to her annoyance, but the idea that she’d done it was finally
sinking in. She’d brought in Cameron Hall, a skip with a bounty large enough to
pay for a whole year of Cara’s tuition.
“I was trying to keep you from being killed.” Leaning back against the
counter, the stranger crossed his arms over his chest, and Molly struggled even
more to hold her scowl. Did guys learn to do that, to make their biceps bulge in
that specific way? Was there some kind of class?
Shaking off her distraction, she focused on holding his gaze. “I can do that just
fine by myself. Who are you, anyway, and how do you know my name—and
what kind of skips I go after?”
“John Carmondy.” His smile was slow, curling up at the edges before it spread
to his cheeks, revealing a killer pair of dimples. “Fellow bounty hunter.”
Tipping her head back, she groaned. Of course he was. Everything was so
much clearer now. Reopening her eyes, she directed a stern look at him. “Were
you trying to steal my skip?”
“Of course not.” She would’ve believed he was actually offended by her
accusation if it wasn’t for the amusement hidden in his voice. “I don’t have to
steal them.”
“Uh-huh.” She tried to make it clear that she didn’t believe him. “You just
happened to be in here, shouting my name and letting him know that I’m a
bounty hunter. Are you a dirty cheater, John Carmondy? Because that’s what it
looks like.”
“I am not a dirty cheater.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
His eyes gleamed with amusement. “I have never cheated. I was helping you.
Bounty hunter to bounty hunter. Brother to sister—in the most hypothetical
sense, of course. You barely needed my help, though. I’m impressed.”
Despite herself, his compliment made her glow. She’d actually done it. She’d
taken down Cameron Hall and proven that she could earn the big payouts. As
much as she wanted to continue reveling in that, though, she had paperwork to
complete and a bounty to claim. Turning toward the door, she couldn’t keep the
enormous, triumphant grin off her face. “I need to go get my hard-earned money.
We’ll see you around, John Carmondy.”
“Count on it, Molly Pax.”
 Chapter 3

“So…wait.” Norah frowned when Molly finished telling her sisters a mildly
edited version of the day’s events. If they knew how close she’d come to being
shot and/or beaten, they’d be upset, and Molly tried very hard to keep her sisters
content. After all the nonsense their mom had put them through growing up, they
deserved to be happy. “Was he helping or not?”
“If he was, he’s the worst helper in the world,” Molly said, the last couple of
words swallowed in a yawn. “He sure is pretty, though.”
Charlie and Cara exchanged what Molly called their “silent twin speech” look.
“You like him?” Cara asked carefully.
“Of course not. He’s ridiculous. I just found him objectively aesthetically
appealing.”
“Riiiight.” Felicity drew out the word in the most sarcastic way possible, and
Molly tried to glare her into submission, but it wasn’t working. She was too
sleepy and drained and satisfied to hold her annoyance, and her frown quickly
shifted back to a smile.
“The important thing is that Cara has her tuition money back,” Molly said as
Cara looked both stricken and hopeful.
“I can’t—”
“Nope.”
“But there’s—”
“You’re going back to school,” Molly said with finality. “I’ll keep it in my
account, and that way, you can honestly tell Mom that you don’t have any
money.”
 Cara blinked, the stricken look fading until only hope remained. “I’m going to
pay you back.”
“Please.” Molly flipped a hand at her. “You work so many hours, I owe you
money.”
As Cara’s eyes began to gleam with the start of grateful tears, Molly stood up,
swaying slightly.
“You can be emotional tomorrow. Tonight, I’m going to take an extra-long
shower, then I’m going to bed. I’m going to sleep for a minimum of twelve
hours, and I will most likely have something frosted and bad for me for breakfast
tomorrow.”
Blinking rapidly, Cara smiled. “Sounds like a plan. I’m going to register for
classes.”
The excitement in her sister’s voice sent another ping of joy through Molly. As
she dragged herself upstairs, her brain was full of thoughts. The business was
succeeding—only just, but that was better than being in the red. Cara wouldn’t
miss any school, Charlie and Felicity were ecstatic to keep chasing and tackling
skips, and Norah loved to research and play with their tech. Warrant was just
happy to fall asleep under the table and use someone’s foot as a pillow.
Things were good.
So why couldn’t she stop thinking about John Carmondy?
Forget him , the practical voice in her head ordered. You probably won’t ever
see him again.
She gave a determined nod, ignoring the niggling feeling that she was just
fooling herself. John Carmondy, with his stupid muscles and dimples and
wicked sense of humor, would not be so easy to forget.
 About the Author

A graduate of the police academy, Katie Ruggle is a self-proclaimed forensics

nerd. A fan of anything that makes her feel like a badass, she has trained in Krav
Maga, boxing, and gymnastics; has lived in an off-grid solar- and wind-powered
house in the Rocky Mountains; rides horses; trains her three dogs; and travels to
warm places to scuba dive. You can visit her at katieruggle.com .
 In Her Sights
Meet a band of bounty hunter sisters…and the men who
steal their hearts.

Bounty hunter Molly Pax fought hard for everything she has. But now every
two-bit criminal in the Rockies sees her family’s latest misfortune as their next
big break and she needs help, stat. Enter rival bounty hunter John Carmondy: six
feet of pure trouble, with a cocky grin to match. John’s the most cheerfully,
annoyingly gorgeous frenemy Molly’s ever had…and he may be her only hope
of making it out of this mess alive.

“Vivid and charming.”

—Charlaine Harris, #1 New York Times bestselling author

For more, visit:

amazon.com
 Deep Blue
A Survival Instincts Novella

Adriana Anders
 To my brothers.
Heroes in their own ways.
 Chapter 1

Zoe shouldn’t have come out to the oil platform alone.

How many times had Jane warned her? How many times had she promised her
partner that she wouldn’t scuba dive offshore rigs on her own? But she’d done it
before, and she’d do it again.
Unless, of course, this time was her last.
Crap.
Eighty-five feet beneath the surface of the water, she spun, taking in details
she hadn’t noticed above. The absolute stillness was disquieting, when usually
the water around the rig’s coral- and crustacean-coated legs was teeming with
life. The sea turtles and tiny reef fish that always investigated her presence were
nowhere to be seen. The only sound was her own breathing as she sucked air
from the tank, the only movements the gentle swish of sea anemone and the
flurry of bubbles rising from her mouth.
The flat, washed-out blue she usually found so calming looked dead without
the flash of garibaldi dashing between the old oil platform’s maze of support
beams like playful orange flames. Usually they’d be swarming, but today…
nothing.
It was Sea Lion Bob’s absence that transformed her sense of general unease
into full-blown worry, however. He’d greeted her every time she’d come to
check the Polaris platform reef.
Something was very wrong.
Get out of here , her instincts screamed, even as her training forced her to
relax. A slow inhale, the sound thin under the weight of the water, and a kick up,
as languid as she could make it with the panic weighing her limbs down. A long
exhale churned the water above, and she added bubbles to the mix by venting
enough air to rise slowly.
Relax. Stay calm.
Why hadn’t she paid attention to the niggling in her belly as she’d driven her
boat toward the platform? It was impossible to pinpoint exactly when the feeling
had started or what had set it off, but it was undeniable. Funny how fear changed
things. It turned the platform’s shell-encrusted support beams into a phantom
forest. The pinks and purples, leached of all color, were the wan gray of death.
I’ll never come alone again , she promised the Fates or God or the ocean itself.
As she slowly ascended, her eyes searched feverishly for some clue as to what
had turned a busy, dynamic reef into a foggy, blue ghost town.
Had she missed something on the trip out here?
She remembered passing the two working platforms closer inland. Nothing
strange there. A few miles farther out, just before San Elias Island, she’d spotted
the Daphne and drawn her boat up alongside her, as she did nearly every time
she came this way. Blushing, of course. Always blushing with that guy.
“Hey, Eric.”
Slow as syrup, he had leaned against the rail of his boat, lean body indolent-
looking, though his face remained serious as always. “Evening, Zoe. Kinda late
today, aren’t you?”
She had shrugged, working hard to keep her gaze above chest level so she
wouldn’t stare. What was it about this guy that made her want to eat him up with
her eyes? He wasn’t even her usual type, which was dark and intellectual. No,
this guy had Paul Newman good looks, with the build of a roughneck. She’d bet
anything his hands were as coarse as his voice.
“Yeah,” she’d managed to shout against the wind. “Been a couple weeks since
I checked in on Polaris.”
“I noticed,” he’d said without the hint of a smile.
The words—straight, serious, and a touch accusatory—did things to her. Good
God, what was wrong with her? Those two innocuous words made her heart race
more than anything she’d done with her last boyfriend. Ridiculous, considering
that Eric showed no more interest in her than in his fishing pole.
Besides, she knew absolutely nothing about him.
“All right.” She reached forward to pull the throttle out, but stopped at his next
words.
“You alone today?”
“Yeah,” she had to admit. “Jane’s not—”
“You diving the rig?”
“Yes.” She had sounded defensive. Weird how that came back to her now,
with a hiccup of embarrassment.
The lines around his mouth tightened, his too-blue eyes narrowed, and he
nodded once, quick and short.
“Careful. Weather headed our way.”
When his worry warmed her insides instead of sparking a snarky Yes, sir ,
she’d known she should get out of there. Throwing him a smile and a wave,
she’d taken off as fast as she could. Everything about the man said trouble—for
her, at least. Oh, he’d always been friendly and respectful, but it was the
unspoken stuff that got to her, like the hungry way he eyed her or, much more
worrisome, the way that look lit her up inside.
She should have listened to his warning about weather, should have turned
around right there and headed back to the mainland. Or, even better, she should
have paused there longer, flirted a bit, maybe even screwed up the courage to
finally ask him out.
But she hadn’t. And now she was pushing back the panic and slowly working
through the eerie calm to the surface, which seemed to be getting farther away
with every kick of her fins.
Inhale…stop kicking. Loosen up. Be big. Exhale…
BOOM!
The sound hit her, and she threw up her hands to cover her ears. Less than a
second later, the rig’s supports shook, releasing a blinding dust cloud that could
mean only one thing—earthquake.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. At fifteen feet below the surface, she fought the
desire to head all the way up and counted down the seconds for her three-minute
safety stop.
Calm down. I’m better off in the water than on land.
Not if the platform collapsed.
She’d never been scared like this on a dive, never shivered so hard underwater.
BOOM!
Another gray puff billowed from the platform, joining the dust rising from the
depths like smoke from a forest fire.
She didn’t have to check her gauge to know she was running low on air.
Yeah, I’m done here.
When she broke the surface by the westernmost leg of the platform, she
yanked off her mask and smelled it immediately—some kind of exhaust. Far
above, an engine hummed, low and even, with regular metallic clangs.
It took about two seconds for everything to clarify. Not an earthquake.
The relief was palpable…and short-lived.
Zoe strained to peer up at the rusting monstrosity rising above the waves.
Crap. Were they recommissioning this rig? No. No way. Not possible. It was too
old; the wells were tapped out. The company had given her nonprofit permission
to turn the Polaris into a reef. But the drill couldn’t very well power itself.
Had Bob, the missing sea lion, somehow climbed his way up the creaking
metal and set something off?
The idea was ridiculous, but Zoe had to investigate. What if he was stuck or
hurt? Besides, that made more sense than someone returning to drill an empty
well.
Heart beating too fast, she swam back to her boat, dropped off her scuba gear,
and returned to the metal leg that provided the only easy way up to the platform.
She could hop up a few feet and then climb the ladder, if needed. Bob had made
it up to the lowest level once. If he was there now, he could be stuck, sick, or
dying. That thought made her move faster, a little frantic.
She pushed up onto her palms, hefted herself onto the low shelf—sharp and
spiked with her beloved sea life—and squinted across to the other legs. The
metal rumbled under her feet.
No sea lion.
 Where was he? She glanced up and got a face full of grime—hard little specks
of rust raining down with every angry clang of the machine. Bob would hate this
noise. She couldn’t stand the idea of him being around here somewhere, alone,
freaking out at this attack on his home.
Zoe set her mouth and wrapped her hands around the rungs. Find Bob, if he
was around. Then figure out what the hell was going on up there. She shut her
eyes for a few long seconds, working up the courage to climb. Funny how she
was perfectly comfortable diving beneath the water, but climbing up high…
She swallowed back a tickle of vertigo that couldn’t possibly be real, since she
hadn’t even moved yet.
Okay. Up. Even through gloves and dive boots, the rusty ladder was abrasive.
Please don’t tear. Not only would the return climb be a pain with ruined
neoprene, but she couldn’t afford to replace her gear, and she wouldn’t let the
nonprofit pay for it.
By the time she reached the first level, she was struggling to breathe, from
dread as much as from the climb itself. Dizziness threatened to hit. She shut her
eyes and pretended not to feel it. There was a reason she’d spent so much time in
this place but had never come up here.
The noise was deafening, and—holy crap —the place was huge. Fending off
another solid rush of vertigo, Zoe tilted her head back and took in the massive
structure rising several stories above. Somehow, from below, the rig had seemed
more manageable. Though it was the smallest of the ones claimed by the
nonprofit, the sheer size of its underwater structure had told her it was big. But
the ocean had a knack for minimizing things. Standing up here, high above the
waves, she was keenly aware of the water dripping from her body to the metal
grate she stood on. She could picture each drop sliding through the holes before
plummeting to the ocean far below.
Needing to look anywhere but down, she wiped her damp face and squinted
ahead. Those were lights—on an ostensibly deserted oil rig out in the Pacific.
And, despite the slick slide of seagull guano under her feet, there couldn’t be an
animal for miles around—not with the racket whoever was on the rig was
making.
 Since the original owners had decommissioned this place, nobody officially
owned it—at least, not the last time Zoe had checked. Nobody should be here
besides the Reef Guard crew, and that was just her and Jane and a couple
weekend volunteers.
Whoever was here, messing around where they didn’t belong, had frightened
Bob and forced millions of creatures from their rightful habitat. No way was she
letting them get away with it.
Ignoring the frigid wind trying to cut its way through her wet suit, she
straightened her back, set her shoulders, and took off on a hunt for whoever was
squatting in the platform she’d come to think of as her own.
Her footsteps inaudible beneath the deafening clang, she took a quick walk
around the open-air portions of the platform. The place was a cold, rusted
labyrinth of steel girders and piping. The colors—bright reds and yellows and
oranges—clearly meant something, though she had no idea what.
The structure swayed beneath her feet, and Zoe scrabbled at the handrail,
clinging to it for dear life. After a few deep breaths, she looked toward the dimly
lit center of the platform. No way did she want to go in there. Or, worse yet, up.
She could get lost in this maze, walking around in circles for hours without
getting anywhere.
But the pumps were in there somewhere. She’d seen enough schematics to
know that. And so, probably, were the people running them. She couldn’t stop
them if she didn’t find them.
I should turn around , she thought. I should go get help. I shouldn’t be here
alone.
She’d turned to do just that when a hand covered her mouth. Seconds later,
pain bloomed at the side of her head, her knees gave out, and she sank to the
floor in silence.

***
Eric waited until full dark before setting off for the Polaris.
Dammit, he’d known something wasn’t right. He’d felt it when he’d cast his
first line today and hadn’t gotten immediate interest. Even earlier, when the
porpoises hadn’t been there to greet him, he’d wondered what was up. Now,
seeing the strange aura in the night sky just past San Elias Island, he knew things
weren’t as they should be.
But like the jerk he was, he hadn’t warned Zoe.
Not a jerk—an idiot. Because though the fishing was decent in this spot, that
wasn’t what dragged him out here day after day. He was honest enough with
himself to admit that what brought him to this isolated place was the possibility
of catching a glimpse of her. He wasn’t even sure what it was about her that got
to him. The obvious answer was her long-limbed, easy grace, coupled with that
insanely wild, flyaway hair—brown, originally, but tinted blond in places—or
those dark eyes, somehow sunny and smoldering at the same time. A Southern
California siren. Add to that the way she handled a boat, like she’d been born on
the water, and the passion she showed for marine life. The whole package was
appealing. More than that—magnetic.
Of course, even after all this time, he couldn’t actually bring himself to speak
to her beyond a couple words. She was so young and energetic and alive, and he
was a dried-up husk of what he’d once been—retired at the ripe old age of forty-
one. Every single time she appeared, his interest perked up, but all systems shut
down. Useless.
Rather than let himself wallow in self-disgust, he pushed the engine to full
capacity.
For some stupid reason, this woman who was probably half his age tied up his
tongue and turned his body into a minefield of teenage sense memories. Girls he
couldn’t talk to, stupid shit coming out of his mouth, a body he could no more
control than the waves beneath him.
Christ. Anything could have happened to her out there, and he’d held back
because he didn’t know how to deal with his crush ?
He’d just begun to circle the island when the lights from the platform blinded
him. He pulled back on the throttle, beyond wary now. Squinting against the
glare, he scanned the darkness beneath the rig, expecting to see the silhouette of
her boat.
 Nothing.
He spun in a full circle, checking the island and the horizon beyond it. Had she
taken a different route home today? No. He’d have seen her either way.
The angry knot in his gut told him she was still out there, somewhere. And
though the sky was low and the wind had picked up, the water was too calm to
give her any trouble. So where was her boat? And where the hell was she ?
That left the platform.
A platform that shouldn’t be occupied, much less lit up like a Christmas tree.
Even from this distance, he could hear that something was going on out there
—and he was pretty sure Zoe had nothing to do with it. But what the hell was it?
Whoever it was couldn’t be drilling. Cali-Power had tapped the damn oil field
out. That well was dry.
Slant drilling, maybe…but no, the platform just wasn’t big enough to merit
that. Which meant Zoe was there with whatever pirate crew had taken over.
Cussing like the roughneck he’d once been, Eric pushed his boat toward the
rig as fast as it would go. As he got closer, familiar scents assailed him so hard
he had to shut his eyes against the memories. Diesel fuel. Probably from a
power-generation module providing juice for whatever the hell they were up to.
His heartbeat picked up. Smells were funny that way, sending him straight back
into the thick of some of the toughest moments of his life. Spices and dust
slapped him right back to the Middle East. Diesel exhaust could be any airfield
in the world, but mix it with salt water and he’d be back on the rig, drilling for
oil.
Yeah, well, different rig, different time, different man.
Caution made him stop a couple hundred yards out, kill the engine, and pull
off his shoes, wishing for a wet suit. For a few seconds, he stood there, swaying
with the water, while emotions—or were they flashbacks?—slapped him, hard as
bullets.
Even after all these years, he felt the adrenaline, the pull of the hunt, the thrill
of the unknown. He still missed it. Life on the rig had been one thing, but once a
SEAL, always a SEAL.
He yanked off his T-shirt, sucked in a lungful of memory-laced air, and
dropped into the frigid water in just shorts. Without tactical gear and a plan, this
was more like BUD/S training than any mission he could recall, but it didn’t
matter. He’d been here before. His body knew what to do.
His long limbs ate up the distance from boat to platform, where he did some
quick recon around the platform’s legs. The noise this thing was emitting had
scared off every creature with a brain in its head, leaving nothing but sponges,
starfish, and empty shells coating concrete and metal. Well, and him. Although
the brain was debatable.
He mounted the ladder to the lower deck, cringing at the sharp edges that bit
into his feet. Staying low, he scanned the space for people or cameras—neither
of which were apparent.
The Polaris was significantly smaller than the rig he’d called home for much
of his thirties. It didn’t take long to investigate the first deck, along with the two
long arms that extended out over the water. Above, he counted three additional
levels full of hiding places, not to mention the living quarters he knew had to be
in there someplace.
Beneath his feet, the hull abruptly stopped trembling. As the noise died down,
he found himself holding his breath, waiting.
Whatever was going on, it was wrong. He could sense it in little ways. If they
were pumping, where was the fresh oil smell? Where was the goddamned crew?
There’d be two dozen guys if this was a rig in full production.
For the first time since he’d climbed up here, Eric felt the cold. Ignoring his
body’s needs was another skill he’d gained through training and necessity. Now
that he noticed it, though, the chill crawled over his skin, rousing goose bumps
like something alive. He ignored it and moved toward a ladder. Best to check the
exterior before facing whatever lay inside.
For some reason, the quiet was worse than the noise had been. Maybe because
he could meld into a ruckus. This silence, though, had the makings of the calm
before a storm…and he didn’t trust it.
When his instinct told him to duck beneath a steel beam, he listened.
Seconds later, voices sounded from above. Unconcerned, they floated loud on
the clear night air.
 “Sampson’s pissed.”
“She just appeared out of thin air, man.” The second voice was nasal and high.
Two men. Their hollow footsteps told him they were directly above. He
swallowed back the urge to blindly attack, and waited. If he could just figure out
who the hell he was up against, he’d know what steps to take.
“It’s that nonprofit. I told you they’d be a problem.”
“Fuckin’ hippies.” Eric wanted to choke the laugh out of Nasal Man’s voice.
“You know how Sampson feels about tree huggers.”
“What’re we supposed to do with her?”
Nasal Man didn’t give an audible response, and Eric had the urge to swing up
there and kick the answer out of him. When he blinked, he could see the man’s
answer etched into the back of his eyelids. A slicing-across-the-throat
movement. Or maybe a gun to the head. Whatever it was, that silence didn’t
bode well.
At the same time, at least the conversation told him that she was alive…for the
time being.
He waited for the footsteps to recede before slipping up the ladder. No more
silent exploration. Whatever Zoe had walked into, he had to find her. Now.
Another random document with
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 PRESERVATION OF FOODS
All food for preservation should be kept in a clean, cool, dry, dark
place. Reduction in temperature to near freezing, and removal of
moisture and air stop bacterial development.
Drying, cooking, and sealing from the air will preserve some meats
and fruits, while others require such preservatives as sugar, vinegar
and salt. The preservative in vinegar is acetic acid.
All preservatives which are actual foods, such as sugar, salt and
vinegar, are to be recommended, but the use of antiseptic
preservatives, such as salicylic acid, formaldehyd, boracic acid,
alum, sulphur and benzonate of soda, all of which have been used
by many canning merchants, is frought with danger. The United
States Department of Agriculture holds, that by the use of such
preservatives, unscrupulous dealers may use fruits and vegetables
not in good condition.
There can be no doubt that, wherever possible, the best method
for the housewife to preserve food is to do her own drying, canning,
preserving and pickling of fruits and vegetables, which she knows
are fresh, putting up her own preserves, jams, jellies, pickles, syrups,
grape juice, etc.
Since economy in food lies in the least amount of money for the
greatest amount of nutriment, the preparation of simple foods in the
home, with a care that no more is furnished for consumption than the
system requires, is the truest economy in health and in doctor’s bills.
It is not more brands of prepared food which are needed, but
purity of elements in their natural state. A dish of wholesome, clean
oat meal has more nourishment and more fuel value than the
average prepared food.
In the effort to emphasize the importance of pure food in
amount and quality, pure air and pure water must not be
overlooked. Much infection is carried by these two
elements. Pure air, containing a normal amount of oxygen,
is absolutely necessary that the system may digest and
assimilate the foods consumed.
 COOKING
The cooking of food is as important as its selection, because the
manner of cooking makes it easier or more difficult of digestion. The
question of the proper selection and cooking of food is so vital to the
health and resultant happiness of every family, and to the strength
and well being of a nation, that every woman, to whom the cooking
for a family is entrusted, should have special preparation for her
work, and every girl should be given practical and theoretical training
in Dietetics in our public schools. The study is as dignified as the
study of music and art. Indeed it can be made an art in the highest
conception of the term. Surely the education of every girl in the
vocation, in which she sooner or later must engage, either actively or
by directing others, means more than education in music and
drawing. We must all eat two and three times every day; there are
few things which we do so regularly and which are so vital; yet in the
past we have given this subject less study than any common branch
in our schools. When the dignity of the profession of dietetics is
realized, the servant problem will be largely solved.
In cooking any food, heat and moisture are necessary, the time
varying from thirty minutes to several hours, according to different
foods. Baked beans and meats containing much connective tissue,
as boiling and roasting cuts, require the longest time.
The purposes in the cooking of foods are: the development of the
flavor, which makes the food appetizing, thus encouraging the flow of
gastric juice; the sterilization, thereby killing all parasites and micro-
organisms, such as the tape worm in beef, pork, and mutton, and the
trichinae in pork; the conversion of the nutrients into a more
digestible form, by partially or wholly converting the connective
tissue into gelatin.
 The fundamental principle to be observed in the
cooking of meat concerns the retention of the
Cooking of
Meats
juices, since these contain a large part of the
nutrition. The heat develops the flavor, and the
moisture, together with the heat, dissolves the connective tissue and
makes it tender.
A choice piece of meat may be toughened and made difficult of
digestion, or a tough piece may be made tender and easy to digest,
by the manner of cooking.

Soups. To make meat soups, the connective tissue, bone and

muscle should be put into cold water, brought slowly to the boiling
point and allowed to simmer for hours. It must be remembered that
the gelatin from this connective tissue does not contain the tissue
building elements of the albuminoids. These are retained in what
meat may be about the bones of the boiling piece and in the blood.
The albumin of meat is largely in the blood and it is the coagulated
blood which forms the scum on soup, if heated above a certain point;
the cook should boil the soup slowly, or much of the nutrition is lost
in the coagulated blood, or skum.

Roasting. The flavor and juice of the meat is best retained by

roasting. If it is put into a hot oven, with a little suet over the top, so
as to sear the meat with hot fat, and no water is put in the pan, it will
retain the juice and the flavor. Water draws out the extractives.
It is important to remember that the smaller the cut to be roasted,
the hotter should be the fire. An intensely hot fire coagulates the
exterior and prevents the drying up of the meat juice. After the
surface is coagulated and seared it should cook slowly.
 Unless the oven is sufficiently hot to sear the surface, the
moisture, or juice, will escape into the roasting pan and the
connective tissue will be toughened. A roast should be cooked in a
covered roaster to retain the moisture.
The roast should be turned as soon as one side is seared and just
sufficient water put into the pan to keep it from burning.
Frequent basting of a roast, with the fat, juice, and water in the
roasting pan, still further sears the surface, so that the juices do not
seep through and keeps the air in the pan moist; the heated moisture
materially assists in gelatinizing the connective tissue,—roasting
pans are now made which are self-basting.

Broiling. The same principle applies to broiling as to roasting. The

meat is put over a very hot flame and turned so as to quickly sear
both sides, to prevent the juice from oozing out. In fact, the best
broiled steaks are turned just as soon as the juice begins to drip, so
as to retain all juice in the meat.
Meat containing much connective tissue is not adapted to broiling,
because it takes too long for this tissue to become gelatinized.
Steak broiled in a skillet, especially round steak which has been
pounded to assist in breaking the connective tissue, is often first
dipped in seasoned flour, which is rubbed well into it. The flour
absorbs the meat juices so that none of them are lost. All meats
broiled in skillets should be put into a very hot skillet and one surface
seared, then should be turned so as to sear the other side. The
skillet should be kept covered so as to retain the moisture.

Boiling. In boiling meat, where the object is to eat the tissue itself,
it should be put into hot water, that the albumin on the surface may
be immediately coagulated and prevent the escape of the nutrients
into the water. It is impossible to make a rich broth and to have a
juicy, highly flavored piece of boiled meat at the same time. Meat is
best roasted or broiled when the meat tissue is to be eaten.
The boiling cuts contain more connective tissue, therefore they
require a much longer time to cook in order to gelatinize this tissue.
They are not as rich in protein as the steaks.
Meat soups, bouillons and broths contain very little nutriment, but
they do contain the extractives, and the flavors increase the flow of
digestive juices and stimulate the appetite. It is for this reason that
soups are served before a meal rather than for a dessert; they insure
a copious flow of gastric juice and saliva to act upon the crackers or
toast eaten with the soup. Many mistake the extractives and flavor
for nourishment, feeling that the soups are an easy method of taking
food, but the best part of the nutriment remains in the meat or
vegetables making the soup.

Pot Roasts. In the case of a pot roast, or roast in a kettle, where it

is desirable to use both the fibre of the meat and the juice, or gravy,
it should be put into a little cold water and raised to about 180
degrees F., where it should be kept for some hours. The juices of the
meat seep out in the gravy. The extractives are simmered down and
are again poured over the meat in the rich gravy.

Frying. This is the least desirable method of cooking. Food

cooked by putting a little grease into a frying pan, such as fried
potatoes, mush, eggs, french toast, and griddle cakes, are more
difficult of digestion than foods cooked by any other means,
particularly where the fat is allowed to smoke. The fat is
superheated; if a lighted match is placed near the smoke it will catch
fire, showing that it is volatilizing, or being reduced to a vapor.
 The extreme heat liberates fatty acids. This acrid fat soaks into the
food and renders it difficult of digestion. It is wise not to employ this
method of cooking.
The objection to frying does not hold so strongly in the case of
vegetables, such as potatoes, if fried slowly in fat, that is not over
heated, or to griddle cakes cooked slowly without smoke, or to foods
immersed in grease (such as saratoga chips, doughnuts, french fried
potatoes, etc.), as the large amount of fat does not permit it to get so
heated. It does apply, however, if the fat is sufficiently heated to
smoke.
The coating of vegetables and cereals with the hot fat prevents the
necessary action of saliva upon the starch globules. As previously
stated, most of the starches are digested in the mouth and the
stomach, while the fats are not emulsified until they reach the
intestines.
The starch globules in cereals and vegetables are in the form of
cells, the covering of these cells being composed largely of
nitrogenous matter. The protein is not acted upon by the saliva, and
the nitrogenous matter is largely digested in the stomach. It is more
easily dissolved if it is broken or softened by cooking, so that the
carbohydrates can come in contact with the saliva, but if encased in
fried fat, the gastric juices cannot digest the protein covering and the
saliva cannot reach the starch until the fat is emulsified in the
intestines. This means that wherever starch globules are surrounded
with fat, the digestive ferments reach these globules with difficulty
and fried foods must be digested mostly in the intestines.
Fats are readily absorbed in their natural condition, but when
subject to extreme heat, as in frying, they are irritants. For this
reason, eggs, poached, boiled or baked are more easily digested
than fried.
Boiling, broiling and roasting are preferable to foods cooked in
fats.
 One safe rule for the cook is, that it is better to
Cooking of cook most foods too much than too little;
Cereals overcooking is uncommon and harmless, while
undercooked foods are common and difficult of
digestion.
In partially cooked cereals, one does not know how much of the
cooking has been done, but it is safe to cook all such foods at least
as long as specified in the directions.
One reason why breakfast foods, such as rolled oats, are partially
cooked, is because they keep longer.
As has been stated, the nutrients of the grain are found inside the
starch-bearing and other cells, and the walls of these cells are made
of crude fiber, on which the digestive juices have little effect. Unless
the cell walls are broken down, the nutrients can not come under the
influence of the digestive juices until the digestive organs have
expended material and energy in trying to get at them. Crushing the
grain in mills, and making it still finer by thorough mastication breaks
many of the cell walls, and the action of the saliva and other
digestive juices also disintegrates them more or less, but the heat of
cooking accomplishes the object much more thoroughly. The
invisible moisture in the cells expands under the action of heat, and
the cell walls burst. The water added in cooking also plays an
important part in softening and rupturing them. Then, too, the
cellulose itself may be changed by heat to more soluble form. Heat
also makes the starch in the cells at least partially soluble, especially
when water is present. The solubility of the protein is probably, as a
rule, somewhat lessened by cooking, especially at higher
temperatures. Long, slow cooking is therefore better, as it breaks
down the crude fiber and changes the starch to soluble form without
materially decreasing the solubility of the protein.
“In experiments made with rolled oats at the Minnesota
Experiment Station, it appeared that cooking (four hours) did not
make the starch much more soluble. However, it so changed the
physical structure of the grains that a given amount of digestive
ferment could render much more of it soluble in a given time than
when it was cooked for only half an hour.
“On the basis of the results obtained, the difficulty commonly
experienced in digesting imperfectly cooked oatmeal was attributed
to the large amounts of glutinous material which surrounds the
starch grains and prevent their disintegration. When thoroughly
cooked the protecting action of the mucilaginous protein is
overcome, and the compound starch granules are sufficiently
disintegrated to allow the digestive juices to act. In other words, the
increased digestibility of the thoroughly cooked cereal is supposed to
be largely due to a physical change in the carbohydrates, which
renders them more susceptible to the action of digestive juices.”

Pastry. Pastry owes its harmful character to the interference of fat

as shown on page 198, with the proper solution of the starch,—at
least such pastry as requires the mixing of flour with fat; the coating
of these granules with fat prevents them from coming in contact with
liquids; the cells cannot absorb water, swell and burst so that they
may dissolve. The fat does not furnish sufficient water for this and so
coats the starch granules as to prevent the absorption of water in
mixing, or of the saliva in mastication. This coating of fat is not
relieved until late in the process of digestion, or until the food
reaches the intestines. This same objection applies to rich gravies,
unless the flour be dissolved in water and heated before being mixed
with the fats. The objection, therefore, is to such pastry as is made
by mixing flour with fat, as in pie crust; it does not apply to most
puddings.
Heat, in cooking, causes a combustion of the carbonic acid gas
and the effort of this gas to escape, as well as the steam occasioned
by the water in the food, causes the bubbles. When beaten eggs are
used, the albuminoids in the bubbles expand the walls, which stiffen
with the heat and cause the substances containing eggs to be
porous.
 Since the root vegetables contain a large
Cooking of proportion of carbohydrates, they should be well
Vegetables cooked, in order that the cells may be fully
dissolved, and the crude fibre broken.
Vegetables are best cooked in soft water, as lime or magnesia, the
chemical ingredients which make water “hard”, make the vegetables
less soluble.
Vegetables and fruits become contaminated with the eggs of
numerous parasites from the fertilizers used; hence they should be
thoroughly washed.
The objection to frying meats are equally strong in regard to
vegetables. The coating of vegetables with the hot fat retards
digestion, as shown on page 198.

“In different countries opinions differ markedly

Cooking of Fruit regarding the relative wholesomeness of raw and
cooked fruit. The Germans use comparatively little
raw fruit and consider it far less wholesome than cooked fruit. On the
other hand, in the United States raw fruit of good quality is
considered extremely wholesome, and is used in very large
quantities, being as much relished as cooked fruit, if indeed it is not
preferred to it. It has been suggested that the European prejudice
against raw fruit may be an unconscious protest against unsanitary
methods of marketing or handling and the recognition of cooking as
a practical method of preventing the spread of disease by fruit,
accidentally soiled with fertilizers in the fields or with street dust.
“As in the case with all vegetable foods, the heat of cooking
breaks down the carbohydrate walls of the cells which make up the
fruit flesh, either because the moisture or other cell contents expand
and rupture the walls or because the cell wall is itself softened or
dissolved. Texture, appearance, and flavor of fruit are materially
modified by cooking, and, if thorough, it insures sterilization, as in the
case of all other foods. The change in texture often has a practical
advantage, since it implies the softening of the fruit flesh so that it is
more palatable and may be more readily acted upon by the digestive
juices. This is obviously of more importance with the fruits like the
quince, which is so hard that it is unpalatable raw, than it is with soft
fruits like strawberries. When fruits are cooked without the addition of
water or other material, as is often the case in baking apples, there is
a loss of weight, owing to the evaporation of water, and the juice as it
runs out carries some carbohydrates and other soluble constituents
with it, but under ordinary household conditions this does not imply
waste, as the juice which cooks out from fruits is usually eaten as
well as the pulp. Cooking in water extracts so little of the nutritive
material present that such removal of nutrition is of no practical
importance.
“The idea is quite generally held that cooking fruit changes its acid
content, acid being sometimes increased and sometimes decreased
by the cooking process. Kelhofer showed that when gooseberries
were cooked with sugar, the acid content was not materially
changed, these results being in accord with his conclusions reached
in earlier studies with other fruits. The sweeter taste of the cooked
product he believed to be simply due to the fact that sugar masks the
flavor of the acid.
“It is often noted that cooked fruits, such as plums, seem much
sourer than the raw fruit, and it has been suggested that either the
acid was increased or the sugar was decreased by the cooking
process. This problem was studied by Sutherst, and, in his opinion,
the increased acid flavor is due to the fact that cooked fruit
(gooseberries, currants, plums, etc.) usually contains the skin, which
is commonly rejected if the fruit is eaten raw. The skin is more acid
than the simpler carbohydrates united to form a complex
carbohydrate. In some fruits, like the apple, where the jelly-yielding
material must be extracted with hot water, the pectin is apparently
united with cellulose as a part of the solid pulp. As shown by the
investigations of Bigelow and Gore at the Bureau of Chemistry, 40
per cent of the solid material of apple pulp may be thus extracted
with hot water, and consists of two carbohydrates, one of which is
closely related to gum arabic. That such carbohydrates as these
should yield a jelly is not surprising when we remember that they are
similar to starch in their chemical nature, and, as every one knows,
starch, though insoluble in cold water, yields when cooked with hot
water a large proportion of paste, which jellies on cooling.
“When fruits are used for making pies, puddings, etc., the nutritive
value of the dish is, of course, increased by the addition of flour,
sugar, etc., and the dish as a whole may constitute a better balanced
food than the fruit alone.”[8]

FOOTNOTES:
[8] C. F. Langworthy, Ph. D.—In charge of Nutritive
Investigations of the United States Experiment Station.
 DIETS
As previously stated, the object of foods is to supply the needs of
the body in building new tissue in the growing child; in repairing
tissue which the catabolic activity of the body is constantly tearing
down and eliminating; and in supplying heat and energy. This heat
and energy is not alone for muscular activity in exercise or
movement; it must be borne in mind that the body is a busy work-
shop, or chemical laboratory, and heat and energy are needed in the
constant metabolism of tearing down and rebuilding tissue and in the
work of digestion and elimination.
In this chapter, a few points given in the preceding pages are
repeated for emphasis. The proteins, represented in purest form in
lean meat, build tissue and the carbonaceous foods, starches,
sugars and fats, supply the heat and energy. An excess of proteins,
that is more than is needed for building and repair, is also used for
heat and energy; the waste products of the nitrogenous foods are
broken down into carbon dioxid, sulphates, phosphates, and other
nitrogenous compounds and excreted through the kidneys, skin, and
the bile, while the waste product of carbonaceous foods is carbon
dioxid alone and is excreted mostly through the lungs.
Since the foods richest in protein are the most expensive, those
who wish to keep down the cost of living, should provide, at most, no
more protein than the system requires. The expensive meat may be
eliminated and proteins be supplied by eggs, milk, legumes, nuts
and cereals.
The most fundamental thing is to decide upon the amount of
protein—two to four ounces, nearly a quarter of a pound a day—and
then select a dietary which shall provide this and also supply heat
and energy sufficient for the day. If the diet is to include meat, a
goodly proportion of protein will be furnished in the lean meat. This
will vary greatly with the different cuts of meat as shown on Table IV,
page 128. If, as often happens, one does not care for fats, then the
starches and sugars must provide the heat. If one craves sweets,
less starches and fats are needed.
The normally healthy individual is more liable to supply too much
protein than too little, even though he abstain from meat. Yet, as will
be shown later, our strongest races, who have lent most to the
progress of the world, live upon a mixed diet.
If the diet is to include meat, it will consist of less bulk, because
the protein is more condensed; for the same reason, if it includes
animal products of eggs and milk and a fair proportion of legumes, it
will be less bulky than a vegetable diet. This point is important for
busy people, who eat their meals in a hurry and proceed at once to
active, mental work. Those who engage in physical labor are much
more likely to take a complete rest for a half hour, to an hour, after
eating. The thinkers seldom rest, at least after a midday meal, and
those who worry seldom relax the mental force during any waking
hours.
Where the system shows an excess of uric acid, the chances are
that the individual has not been living on a diet with too large a
proportion of protein, but that he has been eating more than he
requires of all kinds of foodstuffs. His system thus becomes
weakened and he does not breathe deeply nor exercise sufficiently
to oxidize and throw off the waste. Let it be recalled here that the
theory that rheumatism is caused by an excess of uric acid is
disputed by the highest authorities. It is accompanied by uric acid,
but not supposed to be caused by it.
Every housewife, to intelligently select the daily menus for her
family, needs a thorough knowledge of dietetics. She must
understand the chemistry of food that she may know food values.
The difficulty which confronts the housewife, is to provide one meal
suited to the needs, tastes, or idiosyncracies of various members of
her household. Peculiarities of taste, unless these peculiarities have
been intelligently acquired, may result in digestive disturbances. As
an illustration: one may cultivate a dislike for meat, milk, or eggs, as
is often the case, and the proteins for the family being largely
supplied by these, the individual is eating too much of starches and
sugars and not sufficient protein,—legumes, nuts, etc., not being
provided for one member. Such an one’s blood becomes
impoverished and she becomes anaemic.
The relief lies in cultivating a taste for blood building foods. Foods
which are forced down, with a mind arrayed against them, do not
digest as readily, because the displeasure does not incite the flow of
gastric juices. One fortunate provision of nature lies in the ability to
cultivate a taste for any food. Likes and dislikes are largely mental.
There are certain foods which continuously disagree and they should
be avoided; but many abstain from wholesome food because it has
disagreed a few times. It may be that it was not the particular food
but the weakness of the stomach at this time. Any food fails of
prompt digestion when the nerves controlling the stomach are weak.
Many foods disagree at certain times because of the particular
conditions regulating the secretion of digestive juices. Where this
condition has continued for some time it becomes chronic and a
special diet is required, together with special exercises to bring a
better blood supply to stomach and intestines and to regulate the
nerves controlling them.
Dr. W. S. Hall estimates that the average man at light work
requires, each day,
106.8 grams of protein[9]
57.97 grams of fat
398.84 grams of carbohydrates
These elements, in proper proportions, may be gained through
many food combinations. He gives the following:
Bread 1 lb.
Lean Meat ½ lb.
Oysters ½ lb.
Cocoa 1 oz.
Milk 4 oz.
Sugar 1 oz.
Butter ½ oz.
 A medium sized man at out of door work, fully oxidizes all waste of
the system and he requires a higher protein diet,—125 grams. In
such event he does not require so much starch and sugar. If on the
other hand he were to take but 106.8 grams of protein, as above, he
would require more carbohydrates. One working, or exercising in the
fresh air, breathes more deeply and oxidizes and eliminates more
waste, hence he has a better appetite, which is simply the call of
nature for a re-supply of the waste.
In active work, one also liberates more heat, thus more fat,
starches, and sugar are required for the re-supply. If one has an
excess of starch (glycogen) stored in the liver, or an excess of fat
about the tissues, this excess is called upon to supply the heat and
energy when the fats and carbohydrates daily consumed are not
sufficient for the day’s demand. This is the principle of reduction of
flesh.
It is interesting to note that habits of combining foods are
unconsciously based upon dietetic principles. Meats rich in protein
are served with potatoes, or with rice, both of which are rich in
starch. Bread, containing little fat, is served with butter. Beans,
containing little fat, are cooked with pork. Starchy foods of all kinds
are served with butter or cream. Macaroni, which is rich in starch,
makes a well balanced food cooked with cheese.
Pork and beans,
bread and butter,
bread and milk,
chicken and rice,
macaroni and cheese,
poached eggs on toast, and
custards, form balanced dishes.
A knowledge of such combinations is important when one must
eat a hasty luncheon and wishes to supply the demands of the body
in the least time, giving the least thought to the selection; but hasty
luncheons, with the mind concentrated upon other things, are to be
strongly condemned. The mind must be relaxed and directed to
pleasant themes during a meal or the nerves to the vital organs will
be held too tense to permit a free secretion of digestive juices.
Chronic indigestion is sure to result from this practice. Dinner, or the
hearty meal at night, rather than at noon, is preferable for the
business or professional man or woman, because the cares of the
day are over and the brain force relaxes. The vital forces are not
detracted from the work of digestion.
Experiments in the quantity of food actually required for body
needs, made by Prof. R. H. Chittenden of the Sheffield Scientific
School, Yale University, have established, beyond doubt, the fact
that the average individual consumes very much more food than the
system requires. In fact, most tables of food requirements, in
previous books on dietetics, have been heavy.
Prof. Chittenden especially established the fact that the average
person consumes more protein than is necessary to maintain a
nitrogenous balance. It was formerly held that the average daily
metabolism and excretion of nitrogen through the kidneys was 16
grams, or about 100 grams of protein or albuminoid food. Prof.
Chittenden’s tests, covering a period of six months, show an average
daily excretion of 5.86 grams of nitrogen, or a little less than one-
third of that formerly accepted as necessary; 5.86 grams of nitrogen
corresponds to 36.62 grams of protein or albuminoid food.
Prof. Chittenden’s experiments of the foodstuffs actually required
by three groups of men, one group of United States soldiers, a group
from the Yale College athletic team, and a group of college
professors, all showed that the men retained full strength, with a
higher degree of physical and mental efficiency, when the body was
not supplied with more protein than was liberated by metabolic
activity, and when the quantity of carbonaceous food was regulated
to the actual requirement to retain body heat and furnish energy.
It may be well to call attention here to the fact that the food
elements, called upon for work, are not from those foods just
consumed or digested, but from those eaten a day or two previous,
which have been assimilated in the muscular tissues.
In selecting a diet, the individual must be considered as to age,
sex and physical condition, also whether active in indoor or outdoor
work, and whether he or she breathes deeply, so as to take plenty of
fresh air into the lungs.
The following tables, published through the courtesy of Dr. W. S.
Hall, give the rations for different conditions.
TABLE XI.
Rations for Different Conditions.
Proteins Carbohydrates
Energy in
Conditions Low High Fats Low High
Calories
Man at light indoor work 60 100 60 390 450 2764
Man at light outdoor work 60 100 100 400 460 2940
Man at moderate outdoor work 75 125 125 450 500 3475
Man at hard outdoor work 100 150 150 500 550 4000
Man at very hard outdoor winter
125 180 200 600 650 4592
work
U. S. Army rations 64 106 280 460 540 4896-5032
U. S. Navy rations 143 292 557 5545
Football team (old regime) 181 292 557 5697
College football team (new) 125 125 125 500 3675

TABLE XII.
Rations Varied for Sex and Age.
Proteins Carbohydrates
Variations of Sex and Age Low High Fats Low High Energy in Calories
Children, two to six 36 70 40 250 325 1520-1956
Children, six to fifteen 50 75 45 325 350 1923-2123
Women, with light exercise 50 80 80 300 330 2272
Women, at moderate work 60 92 80 400 432 2720
Aged women 50 80 50 270 300 1870
Aged men 50 100 400 300 350 2258

The unit of measurement for the calories of energy is the amount

of heat required to raise the temperature of one kilogram of energy
to 1° centigrade.
In estimating the number of calories of energy given off by the
different foods, Dr. Hall represents
 1 gram of carbohydrates as 4.0 calories
” ” ” fats ” 9.4 ”
” ” ” proteins ” 4.0 ”
To determine the relative energy which a food represents, it is only
necessary to multiply the number of grams of protein in that food by
4, the fat by 9.4 and the carbohydrates by 4, and add the results.
Thus according to the food required for the average man at light
work given on page 211.
106.8 grams of proteins × 4 = 427.20 calories of energy
57.97 ” ” fat × 9.4 = 544.94 ” ” ”
398.84 ” ” carbohydrates × 4 = 1595.36 ” ” ”
= the calories of energy required
2567.51
for the average man at light work.

Dr. Chittenden’s experiments show that a man leading a very

active life, and above the average in body weight, can maintain his
body in equilibrium indefinitely with a daily intake of 36 to 40 grams
of protein, or albuminoid food, and with a total fuel value of 1600
calories. Authorities, however differ upon the amount of food
required.
Dr. Hall suggests 106 grams of protein
Ranke suggests 100 grams of protein
Hultgren and Landergren suggests 134 grams of protein
Schmidt suggests 105 grams of protein
Forster and Moleschott suggests 130 grams of protein
Atwater suggests 125 grams of protein

In order to bring oneself to as limited a diet as Prof. Chittenden’s

men followed, however, it would be necessary to have all food
weighed so as to be sure of the correct proportions; otherwise the
actual needs would not be supplied and the body would suffer. A
wise provision of nature enables the body to throw off an excess of
food above the body needs without injury, within limitations; but, as
stated, there is no doubt that the average person exceeds these
limits, exhausting the digestive organs and loading the system with
more than it can eliminate; the capacity for mental work is restricted,
and the whole system suffers.
 Prof. Chittenden’s experiments have been a wonderful revelation
to dietitians and scientists. They have demonstrated beyond doubt
that the average person eats much more than the system requires
and thus overworks the digestive organs.
From the fact that only from two to four ounces
Mixed Diet of nitrogenous food is required to rebuild daily
versus a tissue waste, it is apparent that this amount can
Vegetable Diet readily be supplied from the vegetable kingdom,
since nuts, legumes, and cereals are rich in
proteins; yet there is a question whether a purely vegetable diet is
productive of the highest physical and mental development. Natives
of tropical climates live upon vegetables, fruits, and nuts, and it may
be purely accidental or be due to climatic or other conditions, that
these nations have not been those who have made the greatest
progress in the world. Neither have the Eskimos, who live almost
entirely upon meat, attained the highest development. The greatest
progress and development, both as nations and as individuals, have
been made by inhabitants of temperate climates, who have lived
upon a mixed diet of meat, eggs, milk, grains, vegetables, fruits, and
nuts. They have shown more creative force, which means reserve
strength.
The Eskimo has demonstrated, however, that an entire meat diet
supplies all physical needs; the meat tissue providing growth and
repair and the fat supplying all of the carbonaceous elements. The
fat, as previously stated, yields more heat than starches and sugars,
and Nature provides this heat for climates where most warmth is
required. It may be the natural reason why natives of warm climates
have formed the habit of using vegetables and grains for their heat
and energy rather than meat. It is also a natural reason why man, in
temperate climates, eats more meat in winter than in summer.
An unperverted, natural instinct will always be found to have a
sound physiological basis. For example,—if, by reason of some
digestive disturbance, one has become emaciated, all of the fat
having been consumed, and the cause of the disturbance is
removed by an operation or otherwise, one is seized with an almost
insatiable desire for fat, often eating large chunks of the fat of meat